An Opportune Moment
by KatrinaKaiba
Summary: Erin McKinley, a journalist currently looking to add more articles to her already famous and growing column. Men believe that all she writes is gossip and that a woman shouldn’t even be a journalist. They say it’s a man’s job to dig up the truth. Do all m
1. Default Chapter

**An Opportune Moment **

Summary: Erin McKinley, a journalist currently looking to add more articles to her already famous and growing column. Men believe that all she writes is gossip and that a woman shouldn't even be a journalist. They say it's a man's job to dig up the truth. Do all men believe this? Or is there someone who shares the same passions that she does?

_Chapter One_

_Prologue_

_Time_

A treasured jewel of unlimited value that is always wished for, but never appreciated.

_Time._

Always continuous in its circled orb. Never ending. Infinite.

_Time._

A famous quote that, although anonymous, is always referred to: "So much to do, so little time."

People never really take the _time_ to realize, that they don't really have all that much of _time_ to waste. One usually believes that there is always a tomorrow to look for, because there always seems to be. We wake up, we go through the day, and we sleep with that frame of mind that tomorrow is coming. That tomorrow will always be there.

But tomorrow doesn't always come. Sometimes it ends, as it must someday. And at that moment you realize that you never really realized how much _time _you really had, until it was too late. Too late to change.

Too late to really matter.

And you never got around to wondering what you were really able or meant to do with your life.

_Life_

More precious then even Grandfather Time himself, as he sits on his golden throne and determines the calculations of the things to happen, and the individuals affected by it.

_Life_

A philosophical term which takes longer than an entire lifetime to describe.

_Life_

It is said that one thing, just _one, _can change the course of one's life forever. In this case, that element which changed you, gives you a reason to breathe . . . to continue . . .

To _live_

_Life_ is based on the roll of the dice, as the say. A matter of chance.

_Chance_

The true fate master. The one who controls your life in the palm of their hands.

_Chance_

The probability that determines those opportune times in your life, which causes you to make the ultimate decisions, that spontaneously spring onto you.

If every person knew the chances and consequences that they faced in every decision, they couldn't really call the life they lived as fulfilling. Or better yet . . . real. Our actions determine the way our life progresses, whether long or short.

All it takes is a moment. A single step that causes us to make a decision. Life threatening or not, each one matters. Because they add up . . . all lead to that one moment that changes your life forever.

And if each moment is ignored... passed, then that moment, never existed. And one will never know if it really mattered. If it was the one that would determine their life. But if never goes away, never is forgotten. For it happened, and because you acted like it didn't exist, it haunts you. What haunts you?

_Time_

Time chases after us all. Feeding on our very souls. Ages us . . . disintegrates us into dust swept away by the soothing wind.

If we never take in the moments, live them as if they were are last, live them as if they truly mattered, we always regret them later. We always wish we could have changed the past, and thinking, maybe, if we chose differently... better, we would have lived as we should have . . .

As we could have.

An opportune moment disappears in a flash, and never comes back again. These moments pass through time like autumn leaves in a restless wind. Spread sporadically, and appearing unseen, spontaneously. If we hesitate, whose to say that we lived our life to the fullest.

Whose to say we lived.

And so, I guess this story starts, on a sunny, ordinary day, in a London public park. I can't really say the exact time, or the exact moment that it happened, for I do not control time. But it happened and nothing can change it.

A group of four young boys, ages incompatible, were playing catch in the freshly watered and pruned grass, while their supervisor, or guardian , sat upon a bench and caught up on his latest predictions for a story that he pondered about writing, whilst his faithful canine lay beside him, lolling in the pleasure of the sun.

The oldest threw to the youngest. Being adequately vertically challenged and unable to jump high enough, the youngest was unable to catch the heavy ball, and it sailed over his head and toward an unaware young woman.

She sat upon a blanket she placed herself, basking in the sun, reading a novel she had picked for this regular occasion. Their shouts called to her, but it was too late.

The ball ricocheted off her head, and landed with a thud on her laps as she fell into unconsciousness.

****

**_A/N Did you like it. This story is dedicated to a very special friend of mine who inspired me to write it, and this one is very different from my other Finding Neverland fanfic. So, please, tell me if I should continue. RR savvy_**


	2. Chapter 2

**An Opportune Moment**

A/N Wow, five reviews so far. To tell you the truth, I wasn't really expecting that kind of feedback, because frankly I thought this would turn out to be worse then my Neverland fic. But I'm glad and relieved at your responses. Thank you. I appreciate them. Now enjoy my next chapter.

_Ch. 2 _

"_Well at least your not dead. For that you should be thankful, lady."_

"Is she dead?"

"No Michael, she's still breathing."

"George you should have been more careful."

"I didn't mean to hit her Uncle Jim, she was just-"

"Shh, she comin' around."

Her head throbbed like a cannon had just blasted its way to the very base of her skull, and she was afraid to move, for fear that the pain might intensify. She didn't know why it hurt so but she had a feeling the three voices ricocheting and vibrating her head amongst its already present migraine, told her that at least someone knew. She opened her eyes wearily, edging them open slowly to try and succumb the pain.

Her gaze was blurry and multiple as she saw about five people crouching before her. She shook her head slightly to, one could only guess as, relieve herself of her confused and hopefully imaginative mirages that plagued her mind.

But what she didn't expect was that she might have been seeing clearly after all.

"AHHHH!" she screamed as she rolled away from their gazed and stared back at them, and was throughly flabbergasted at the fact that they seemed just as surprised at her reaction as she was.

A coalition appeared to be in her presence as she stared agile at each face and recorded them each in her mind. At first she engrafted, what seemed to be a six year old boy, with sea foam eyes, chubby round childish cheeks and the usual small figure that accommodated his age. Her gaze then rested on what she noticed was a child older than the previous, but not so much. He seemed to be around nine with hazel eyes and freckles sporadically scattered around his face, especially present on his nose. He was taller than the last one and was more lanker when it came to size. The next one, was older again than the previous, probably around eleven, but had a clearer face and was bit more pleasingly plump and had crystal blue eyes . The last child was like tall and lanky, like the second she had noticed, but his face had seemed to have been erased from all childish lining. He had light shining green eyes and a long thin nose. He seemed around fourteen to fifteen years of age. They all resembled each other, as siblings should, but the only real feature that they all shared together, was their dusky hair.

"Are ye alright, madame?" asked a strangely foreign voice. She noticed that it was Irish...no Scottish. She turned to her left and noticed that this stranger was certainly not a child.

His face was sharp and delineated, especially noticeable around where his cheekbones were accentuated. He had a healthy glow on his skin, which was a peachy rose color, and it was clear of any flaws or blemishes. His nose was somewhat cute, where it was long and lean and ended with a slight slope . His neck which, although was slightly covered by a white collared shirt and gray neck tie, seemed to show a masculine sort of strength as she noticed his salubrious Adams apple and the outline clearly defining the cords that connected his neck to his head. He had sleek black hair, which was constricted by what seemed to be simply a thin tooth comb and bottle of hair oil. He wore a simple gray vest and slacks and a chain which she only assumed could lead to a pocket watch of some sort . His long, and what she believed, were gorgeous hands, were with one holding him up on the blanket that she had laid down and the other positioned in his lap. She also noted, with great pleasance, that his lips were coral in color, and seemed to be shaped in what women would refer to as, poetic. They made her lick her lips slightly and she hoped he believed that it was because they were dry.

"Are you alright miss?" he repeated, but not in impatience, more with worry, " Because ye seemed to have been hit generously on the head."

Her eyes met with his concerned gaze and she was rooted to where she sat.

His eyes were, without a bit of skepticism, the most glorious she had ever seen her life. They were a striking chocolate brown, that seemed to resemble that warm feeling you felt on a cold winter's day, after just previously playing in the bitter snow and then basking yourself in the warmth of the fire's hearth. They also seemed to have a fire's erotic glow as its embers diminished the logs that it was fed. She believed that a artist could have just painted a portrait of only his eyes, and would be considered the most creative, prestigious, and talented of his kind. She thought then and there, that Michelangelo's predictions of David being the perfect male form, was thoroughly and completely stripped forth of its title.

And she still didn't know his name.

James POV

She still hadn't answered his question, and he was afraid that the hard ball that the boys had thrown at her head, must have also inflicted damage on her speech. But she was making eye contact that was certain, as he stared into her beautiful sapphire eyes. Her eyes reflected like the sun did off a blue sea as if he was on a beach on a hot day, and not in a park in the first months of spring. They seemed to cascade over him and he was riveted in her searching. And while she was occupying herself with him, he might as well get acquainted with her.

Her dark molasses colored hair was pulled back into a bun, but from her previous attack, some hair had been shaken loose and now draped in dark curls down the sides of her face. Her face was a light pale white, as if she was incapable of catching the rays of the sun. But her cheeks which were thin and finely emphasized, were a pleasant shade of pink, like the blossoming pink rose in the height of summer. Her nose was thin and pointed at the end, and her lips were thin and pink, but was being worried by her teeth, which showed some conflict that she seemed to be having within herself.

Her light rose dress failed miserably to diminish the way her body was structured. Although she was a bit thin and somewhat lanky, she still accommodated the luscious womanly curves apparent on a woman, especially around her hips. Her dress was light and loose and as she as sat there, it clung to one side of her, revealing those predicted curves.

She was very beautiful. And he couldn't help but loose his train of thought, or whatever thoughts he had left.

"What did you say?" her voice, unlike her petite figure, had an edge of strength and boldness to it, along with her curiosity.

Original POV

James cleared his throat awkwardly, hoping that she hadn't caught him staring at her, and answered,

glad that she wasn't a mute, "I asked you if you were all right."

"Oh... um, well, my head hurts quite a bit, but I should be fine now, thank you." her voice was familiarly arranged with the dialect found most common among the English people.

"Well that's good to hear." he said with a pleasant smile, and she found that she wished his face would keep that way forever.

"Well at least your not dead. For that you should be thankful, lady." said the youngest.

"Well, hello. Actually I am very thankful. And who might you be, young sir?" she said, turning her attention back toward the four young gentlemen.

"I'm Michael. I'm sorry you got hit with the ball, but I'm too short, and George is too tall and when he threw the ball, I was to small to catch it."

"Well that's okay, I'm sure you wanted to catch it. You didn't know when George threw it that it would hit me."

"Did I say that? I didn't mean to tell I didn't." his eyes widened in terror at that thought that he just told a forbidden secret that never really existed.

"Excuse my brother miss. He can certainly talk an ear off." said the oldest, who scolded his brother with a stone look.

"Well that's all right. Your George ,aren't you?"

"Correct ma'am. Sorry about the ball." he said, his face wincing slightly at remembering that he had done it.

"It's all right, no permanent damage done," she said, waving away his apology with the flick of her hand.

"And you are?" she said, turning toward the eleven year old.

"I am Jack, pleasure to make your acquaintance madame," he said politely and a bit stiff like, as he reached for her hand and kissed it.

"The pleasure is all mine good sir." she said cheerfully, wishing all children could be this polite.

"Hey, what did I tell ya about that?" the man said crossly as he stared at the young boy.

"Sorry Uncle Jim." Jack said gloomily as he dropped her hand.

:"What's the matter?" she asked, perplexed that a child would be in trouble for being courteous.

"Oh, it's just, that Jack tends to be a bit too friendly to the women he meets.":

Completely understanding, she chuckled a bit and said, " Oh, you like older woman do you?"

He blushed and looked down awkwardly at his feet.

"And you? What's your name?" She asked to the last one, who was being extremely quiet.

"Peter." and silent once more.

"Oh, well, nice to meet you Peter." she said and he took her hand and shook it limply once, and then released it once more.

"Well I think you boys have fulfilled your apologies, so I'll ask you kindly to go retrieve my hat from Porthos' mouth." he said, and they all turned and seeing the canine with their guardian's favorite hat clutched in his mouth, they yelled in protest and ran after him as he scurried away.

When they had finally disappeared, she turned back toward him with a appreciative smile.

"Thank you for helping me. Your boys are quite wonderful, and very polite, despite, um, certain reasons."

He laughed then at her notion of Jack, and she couldn't help but relish the sound. His low baritone was very soothing and she wished that she could think of something else that would make him laugh again.

"Yes well, they learned well from their mother."

"Are you their father?"

His eyes seemed to have glossed over in a abrupt sadness, but he quickly recovered, and smiled slightly, "No, I'm not. Just their guardian."

"Oh. So their mother...Oh I'm so sorry." she said, truly being so.

"That's quite all right. We loved her dearly." he answered, as if regretfully, and a silence erupted between them.

Moments passed as they watched the children continue their fervent attempts at chasing Porthos, and then something hit her as she realized how rude she must have been not formally introducing herself.

"Oh how rude of me," she clucked her tongue in disapproval, and James abruptly brought his attention back to her, "I haven't even introduced myself.

She held out her hand and said, " I'm Erin McKinley."

He took her hand and shook it. "That's Irish isn't it.? You don't sound it."

"Oh well, my ancestors were Irish, and I've lived here all my life, so I've adapted to this dialect. And you are?"

"Oh yes how roguish of me. I'm J.M. Barrie."

Her eyes widened slightly and her mouth hung in surprise.

"James Barrie, the author?"

"Yes." was his response.

"Oh my God!" she screamed appreciatively and he jumped in surprise."

"What?" he asked, clearly confused at her sudden change in reaction.

"I am such a huge fan of yours. I especially loved Peter Pan, and your play. I've seen it twice"

"Oh," he chuckled in relief, " well, thank you. It's always nice to meet a fan."

"Well, since you know of me profession, how 'bout yerself."

" I'm a journalist."

"A journalist?"

"Yes, I know, woman aren't really considered writers." she said cooly. _Just like every other man I've met._

_"_No, no, you misunderstand. I didn't mean my tone to sound like that. I think women can be very intellectual and well-versed writers. It's just that you don't find or hear, for that matter, about that many of them. Especially journalists. That very good for you."

"Well thank you. I'm glad you think so." _Well, I guess maybe not like every other one._

_"_So what paper or magazine do you write for?"

"Um, the uh, British Weekly." (Not an actually newspaper)

"Oh really, well I read that all the time."

"Well, I'm sure you have read some of my articles, but uh, you wouldn't know it because I write under a pen name."

"Why?"

"Oh well, it's not really my choice."

His eyes knitted together and she continued, to relive him of his confusion.

"You see, I'm not really," she said, moving her hands around, as if searching for the right term, " _supposed_ to write in that newspaper, legal rules. So if I write under a _nom de plume_, as they say, no one at the company knows that I'm a woman, and my articles get published."

He stared a her for a while, his mouth slightly open and his eyes scrunched together as if he was thinking rather hard about something. Finally, lifting his eyebrows a bit, he said, " That's insane."

"Yes it is. But it's the only way I can do what I want for a living." she answered to his notion in agreement.

"Well, what's your pseudonym?"

"Eric McKinley."

"Ah, so you give them your address and the name, and then they send you the money."

"Yes. Sometimes I have to go and get it, so I pretend I'm married to him."

He laughed again.

"So you're married to someone that doesn't exist, or are you actually married?" he said trying to catch a glimpse at her right hand, but they were folded neatly in her lap, left over the right.

"Actually, no, um, I'm not."

"You, not married. I find that hard to believe." he said with a knowing smile.

"Flattery doesn't work on a girl like me. No, I...just never wanted to be married." she said with a slight shrug.

"But surely you've been asked."

"Nope."

"Never?" he said, disbelieving.

"Not everything is always as it seems. You of all people should know, Mr. Barrie."

"Touché, Ms. McKinley." he said, nodding his head in apology, causing her to chuckle.

"Got it Uncle Jim." Peter said, happily, as he produced James' now very dirty and beaten chapeau.

"Thank you very much boys." he said, gingerly grabbing it with two fingers.

"Well, it the greatest pleasure in meeting you today, Ms. McKinley."

"The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Barrie."

He stood up, still with the hat in hand, and said, looking at her she stood up too.

"I hope we meet again sometime."

"As do I Mr. Barrie."

She watched him take Porthos' leash, and him and the boys, whilst talking animatedly about their recent escapades, retreated to their home, and said with a smile and a sigh,

" As do I."

**_A/N Hey that rhymed. Well I hope you enjoyed that. Oh just so, if anyone didn't figure it out already, nom de plume means in french, literally, "name of pen" or pen name. Now press the little button on the bottom of the screen and R&R savvy._**

_**Thank you's to:**_

**_Dawnie-7: Thank you, but I think my Neverland Prolouge was a lot better. I'm glad you like this story so far._**

**_Meredith A. Jones: I'm glad you like this story so far. Thanks for the review_**

**_H.M. Chandler (ANONYMOUS): Thanks for the review babe_**

**_Erin: Thanks for the review. I'm glad you really love this story. But maybe it's about you. Hmm. I hope you enjoyed this one. And I'm expecting a review._**

**_H.M. Chandler: Thank you, I was hoping someone would think that. I was trying really hard to thinh of a reason for this, besides the fact that I have a very egotistical friend (lol). Yes I took the idea from that very lovable pirate captain. I'm glad, because I thought it would be funny. But for the way this story will go, it seemed appropriate. I'm glad you caught on. I can be very random at times._**


	3. Journalism Never Prints Good News

_Ch. 3 _

_Journalism Never Prints Good News_

A/N Wow! I definitely wasn't expecting that kind of response. I thank you all, my wonderful readers, and for those who have already read my other fic, _Neverland,_ I have a message for you.

THE STORY IS NOT OVER YET!

None of you can believe how many reviews I have that say, 'oh thank you for a great story... I cried so much,' and so on and so forth. The story isn't over, and sorry if I'm being crude but some of you are going to get your butts handed to you, when you read it. Sorry. Anyway, its been awhile, according to my oh so helpful friend, since I have written for this story, so please be patient with my writing.

And for any newcomers, and old readers as well, I thoroughly encourage you all to read my other fics. _Neverland, The Lady and the Pirate(Potc), Daughter of Thieves (potc),Two of a Kind(Secret Window), _and of course this one. So, if its convenient, move your mouse (if you have one. If not, I sympathize with you wholeheartedly), or click the tab button, down to that special button reserved for reviews, and _please_(holds up hands together in apologetic eagerness), _please review. _Tell me your comments. I really enjoy reading what you think. R&R savvy? Oh and for each reviewer, you each get your own bottle of rum. I don't know about you, but that would make me jump to that button real quick. LOL

Drink up me hearties, and without further ado I give you...chapter 3.

Erin McKinley sat in her already shaped, from many years of wear, cerise leather chair, lined with golden gems, that were of no real commercial value, but presented the chair with the required etiquette for its original purpose. She sat up ramrod straight, due to her own extensive etiquette as a child, leaning over her oak desk, reading a particularly witty passage from a classic favorite of hers.

She pushed the connecting bridge with her index finger, as it began slipping slowly down her nose, due to their heavyset frame. Just as she was about to return to her pleasant reading after dealing with her notorious frames, she was interrupted spontaneously as her front bell chimed.

Sighing slightly, she raised out of her chair and scooted it back for exiting space; her chair protesting in acute anger.

Her cream muslin was loose and airy, and flowed behind her like a insufficient train, as she hurried toward the alien that lingered on her doorstep.

She opened the door to reveal, Denis Rochester, a wealthy noble and fellow journalist. But despite his golden tan, wavy blond hair, and royal blue eyes that accompanied a dazzling smile, that is meant just for the female species and their mundane technicalities to swoon in delight, he seemed as fictitious as his title. He was handsome enough, but she was, perhaps, more of the type that actually believed that a man should be able to concoct a sentence of original thought. Or at least keep her attention.

This man succeeded in neither.

Despite his suave words that are meant to charm a woman into foolish submission, Erin felt she had heard these same words, from other suitors. And she believed as she had then; she could come up with better. Or perhaps even write a book warning other wary women as well.

"Hello Miss M_c_Kinley," he drawled in that high society voice, that sounded as fake as the plastered smile on his face.

"I was expecting to find a young woman, but instead I seemed to have stumbled upon the graces of an angel."

Erin smile was strained, but convincing enough because his pliant one was unaltered. Then again, he was too ignorant and egotistical to even register her own feelings of discomfort and repulsion.

"Then maybe you should count your blessings," she said icily. She had meant it to offend him, but he laughed heartily in response. She scrunched her eyebrows in confusion; she had missed the joke.

"Oh, you are so witty and clever Erin. Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I ring your doorbell again." he said, trying to act debonair and suave.

Trying, but failing miserably.

That was the worst pickup line she had ever encountered, and trust me, she had her good, or should I say, bad share.

"No actually." she replied in all seriousness.

Now don't get her wrong. She believed their was such a thing as love, and that it existed between two people, or even more if that was the case. But she didn't believe that one glance could steal someone's breath away and then the strangers would be wed the very next morning, without even stringing two sentences together besides, "Will you marry me?", and "Yes."

It just wasn't logical. How would you expect yourself to live every waking moment with someone, if you didn't have a firm grasp on who they were, or overall, reality. Reality just didn't work like that.

Sure there were those marriages that were arranged so you had no say on who you married, and furthermore were legally stuck to them for life. But that doesn't mean you love them. Sure you could grow to love them, but you rarely hear of cases such as love at first sight, except only in fairy tales, and of course your own dreams.

So it was uncommon to find, that Erin did not suffer from the malady of a simple debutante that could be wooed by a stolen glance, a few flowery words, and maybe even a few baubles that would sum a king's ransom. She was much more authentic than that.

"You don't?" astonishment laced his voice, and his freshly shaped eyebrows raised in inquisition.

"I believe there is such thing as what would be referred to as 'soul mates'. Meaning that someone is destined for someone from the incarnation of birth, but as for it all happening in one magical moment, that is said to consist of up to two seconds...well...I don't see how that's possible."

Her words sent a comical image onto Denis' sharply chiseled face, as he observed how his simple insinuation, had developed into a minor coup d'etat from her part, as if she had suddenly manipulated him into saying something totally absurd.

He knew she would be a difficult catch, but he believed he could win her battle of wills as it were. He had watched his colleagues try to win her affections, taking notes to what displeased her and what made her laugh. And try as they might, all they managed was a polite smile with an even more polite refusal, and they were left in a dazed stupefaction, and all that gave him were what to say if he wanted a good smack.

But like all women, she would eventually fall into his charms. He was sure of it. Because he had in his power to take away what she loved in life.

_Writing._

He was her manager, and even though he did not run the entire newspaper, he did control the a major part, including the part in which wrote her articles, of course using a pseudonym. And that meant he had the authority to fire her, if she didn't meet his _expectations_, as it were. And since she was woman in the society that exists of 1904, she had no right or power to argue his decision. So either way he got what he wanted. And Denis Rochester always got what he wanted...one way or the other.

"Well, Erin, I don't know about that, but what I do know is that it is extreme crude of you to have not even invite me into to your magnificent home."

It was magnificent. It contained everything a noble house for a young maiden should. Fine china and polished crystal, a grand staircase leading to an infinite amount of rooms that, for the majority, she had no real use for, and obediant servants.

But she wished one of those _loyal _servants would have been the lucky ones to have opened the door.

"I'm sorry but I actually have to go to park to meet someone." she lied lamely.

Well technically it wasn't a lie. More like stretching the truth really. She was going to the park, and perhaps would meet with someone. But she didn't have an inkling as to whom yet.

"Who?" he asked, and she sensed a twinge of jealousy edged in his voice.

"That's really none of your concern," she replied sweetly, but her mind right now was anything but reflecting sweetness.

"Well in that case," he reached for her hand to give her a flourished kiss, resembling proper custom. Being reluctantly polite, she allowed it, and once his moist, slimy lips touched her, she felt in the pit of her stomach her large breakfast of eggs and bacon this morning, become agitated and unsettle her to gross repulsion.

"I bid you ado, my fair mademoiselle. I hope your affairs turn out for the better. And I expect to see you Monday with that new report then?"

"Of course."

He left her there, and as she saw his form retreat and appreciatively gone in a manner of seconds, she began scraping vociferously at the back of her hand, whilst muttering in scorn,

"Just perfect. Now my nightmare is complete."

**_Thanks to_**

**_Erin: LUV YA LOTS LUV! Wow as I read that over, that looks a little weird. Not exactly Shakespeare but it'll do. Thanks for the review luv. And for those who are reading this, this is the woman I am basing this story. Not exactly a woman though. More like my best buddy. She inspired this story and for that she gets a bottle of rum, and a cookie. eats cookie> Oh well..._**

**_kungfuchick: I'm glad ye liked it mate. Review, savvy._**

**_Dawnie-7: What can I say? I love that you are always the first one to review my stories. You have such lighting quick reflexs when it comes to that review button, I'm telling ya. And as for the fliritng comment, I'm glad you noticed that, because I'm trying to prevent a Mary-Sue from forming. Thanks luv as always._**

**_H.M. Chandler: Congrats on the title. I thought someone would get it eventually. As for the name thing, I don't mind. I was just curious. And the relationship factor won't become that evident so keep your eyes peeled. Thanks luv as always_**

**_Meredith A. Jones: NAZIS! Sorry just had to bring that up. Thanks for the lovely review, and you really have no idea how happy it makes me to your name on my review list. And as for the hat, it is the same one. I remember sitting in the theatre and seeing the hat and going, "Nice hat," as well, and then some man yelled at me and told me to be quiet. Wow...I almost threw my popcorn at him. I guess Johnny Depp doesn't only drawn in the female crowd...but who could blame them, eh? ;). As always I hope you enjoyed this chapter and can't wait to hear from you. Cheers mate._**


	4. Madness and Waddling Cases

**Opportune Moment**

_Ch.3 _

_Madness and Waddling Cases_

Men!

Can't live with them, and you certainly can live without them.

At least that was Erin's opinion.

All her life, men were the center of attention; the cream of the crop. There simply was no besting them, and in 99 cases out of a 100, when it came to open debates relating to a man and a woman's disagreements, the man would, based on the ratio, always win. A sick and twisted world was woven amongst the feathered headed, chauvinistic apes that made up the respectable London that existed today. She began to believe that God decided to put man in charge of every aspect of human life, simply by the fact that if he didn't, then hell would have broken loose. So give the whining baby what he wants, but soon, appeasement will no longer work, and you'll have thousands of the devil's spawn running amok. Perfect plan God. Real genius.

She wished that for one day, the least, a man didn't judge her for what she was and what stereotypes were inflicted upon her due to the generous desired help from Britains _ne faux pas _society. That she could be accepted for her own dreams, her own talents. In reality, just to be accepted.

A woman in Britain's society had her life mapped out for her until she died, causing most women to wish they we dead. Each lady was expected to be courted early, around the age of 14 to the latest, 18,during the time called the Season, where many young bachelors and young maidens would attend a chain of balls in search for the perfect someone. Those of who were approved of course. Meaning those with an exuberant amount of money, and a longer title than that of the mut with the most colored breeds. A title that a writer would kill for.

That is why, early in life, Erin decided that her only love would be her writing. Writing could never hurt you, except for a paper cut every now and then. And the words, even if coming from a lady, could never be judged. Something refreshing like cool water hovering down your bedewed body after a day of tedious and strenuous work. A void of escape for those crammed thoughts and phrases of _faux pax_ that if discussed amongst those of a stoical nature, and perhaps even those of a clandestine mind but a mouth of causerie, fatal consequences would erupt into the uncharitable depths of society. In writing, however, these simple, perhaps even facetious, phrases won't be turned away.

It is said that because of this known fact, many people keep a journal or seek the metaphorically calming profession of writing (which we all is a huge lie, but gossip is gossip), in order to escape times of anguish and bittersweet emotions. So they confide in this sole confidant, that will not only listen (in a figurative sense), understand (also figuratively), but respect and understand (not figuratively). How can that be said? Well, the pen and paper with which you write, of course, does not have a mind, so it in fact, does not have an opposing argument. Nor a few harsh words to be embarked upon. No...

Silent. Just how Erin liked it.

So, at a young age of 8, Erin sought the confines of her thread bare room and journal, which was actually pieces of paper sewn together with thread from the bottom of her dress.

Now from what we have previously found is that Erin, in the present, lives in an opulent manor, with the services of submissive retainers, and has a successful, despite the hardships, job as a columnist for the London newspaper.

So, how can I say, that she was living like she was in a slum meant for those who could not afford such things. Not meaning to be racist or discriminating; just stating fact. Well, in so many words, she did.

She lived her life, at first, in perfect happiness. Her mother and father loved her to their heart's greatest content, and did not resist in doting sumptuous gifts upon her person. Sometimes for no reason at all. But, one day, her mother became very sick, and eventually in such a way, that had ridden her to bed rest. She was seven when her mother died of consumption.

A fair deal of a crying had been issued, but not a tear was to be shed from her father. One day she had asked him why it was so that he did not cry, and he glared heatedly before sharply answering, 'I haven't the time for foolish inquisitions, child. I need to organize a funeral here.'

And that was the day that the gifts stop coming. But what was worse, the love stopped showing.

One day, Erin, walked in a found her father on the floor of his study, a picture of her mother clutched in his right hand. She would be eight on the very day of her father's funeral. The doctor's said the cause of death was heart ache.

She wondered for sometime, if she had only walked in on him when she heard the muffled sobs of his voice edging through the transparent cracks in the build of the mahogany door, that maybe he was still alive. Maybe if she had held him and told him that everything would be fine, that he would be still there holding her. Maybe then he wouldn't have taken that dagger and... well who would have listened to a helpless, inferior naive adolescent anyhow? Especially a female one.

Afterwards she was stripped from her house and sent to live with her uncle, Lord Duron, who lived in Wales. So far from home, she became homesick and would often cry and mope around the house. At first her uncle was very comforting, and would often leave her alone, since most men are not able to comprehend the emotions and mood swings that affect a girl during certain situations, including those of extreme suffering and grief. Some girls, in fact, are unable to handle their own problems, and so they cause those around them to become aggravated because of their aggravation. Sometimes, that aggravation increments up into pure frustration and stress. And that stress can build up into a painful pressure. So painful, that one can almost never contain it, and must inflict their suffering on something.

Unfortunately, being a man, Lord Duron, despite his elegant title, suffered from the sexist term for superior-inferior complex. And, in his beliefs, he believed that women were nothing more than beings that were meant to be bent and molded into something that men wanted. Something worth seeing. Something worth being around.

What he called his 'methods' of molding was teaching. What she called it was torture.

'Why would anyone want a little girl with black eyes and cuts gracing her lips?' shw would wonder painfully. She could hide the other ones with clothing, but the beauty she once held, the light that used to shine, had been crushed into the shadows by an evil black tyrant, behind a mask of his own will.

She ran away when she 16.

Her long legs carried her to a lovely stoop. Full of flowers and vibrant color, she could not help but be entranced. If the garden was so beautiful, why shouldn't the people there be too?

One usually can judge a person on their starting impressions. And usually they are right in their assumptions. So it was no different that a lovely elderly lady, owned that beautiful garden, and took her in as part of her staff.

Long talks followed, and many walks were taken by Erin on her days off. She would walk around the grounds, sometimes with a pen and leather book in her hand. There was always this one place she would end up. The little old lady had sworn once that she had been told that the stable boy had found her there once lying under the weeping willow.

It was called Erin's pond, or least what she called it. She loved it there. There always seemed to be an air of jollity and grace, as the trees swayed in rhythm with the breeze and cast thought consuming ripples to flow, like the thoughts in her imagination. She would sit and write. Notes most of the time, that she never really understood until she looked them over later. Or sometimes she would just think...and think...and think. About anything at all. And the beautiful part that struck her most in her deep thought, was that no one could tell her she couldn't.

That's what we all long for. Independency. That feeling where we're not crushed by that hand that commands us to give our will. Our reason for inquisition. That force pestering for obedience, without resilience. It was here where Erin could watch the many dewy rains of colors sink into the water, as nighttime called its eery warning, and find peace...tranquility.

Silence.

It was also here, where Erin wrote her first book. It was one of those, I'm-never-going-to-publish-this-but-what-the-hell,-why-not?- kind of books.

One day she saw a duck.

And not just any duck, but a cute duck.

But I guess all ducks are cute.

And she would watch this duck, everyday, for it was always there, as if waiting for her.

She would write something, it would swim, waddle, anything really that ducks do.

And when she was finished, so was he.

And she'd watch him, as he flew away to the depths of the sinking sun. And she envied him.

His innocence...his free-spirited ways.

But most of all...his freedom.

After that day, she believed he was in fact swallowed by the sun, for he did not return. Never again.

In her book, she wrote that he went to see his penguin friend down in the Arctic, and the reason why he had not returned was because he was trying to teach his funny winged friend how to fly. Now we all know how this goes. But she still believed the duck was trying, and maybe one day, he would come back to her.

Her one friend. The one who never talked. The one who never would question, and never flee. The one who taught her to try. And she would wait for him, by that pond, everyday.

For the rest of her life.

So that was where she was to be found, thinking as usual, and trying to calm herself from the hectic life that was determined by her many obstacles and chances of luck. The old lady had died a far few years before, and had left everything in her will to the young lady that had stumbled upon her stoop, and before receiving a bit of tea had complemented her on her garden.

Now, if Erin didn't believe men to be scum, then there would be no basis to the conflict of this story. And if I had not told you her past, you would never have guessed why she feels the way she does about men. And if I had not mentioned the waddling duck of freedom, why, then there would be no silliness in this story. So all these points are all going to pool together into a gigantic convection of downright silliness and maybe even horrifying circumstances of luck and chance. And who better than to be acquainted with this madness and waddling cases, then none other than...

James Matthew Barrie...

**_Thank you to all my lovely reviewers. I 'm doing this in a hurry, so thank yous in the next chapter, savvy? PLEASE READ AND REVIEW MATES! If you do you get J.M. Barrie in the next chapter (figuratively speaking. Sorry to put a damper on you hopes, mates)_**


	5. “Well if that is what the woman wants, t

_Opportune Moment_

_Ch.5 "Well if that is what the woman wants, that is what she shall get."_

In every moment of James Matthew Barrie's life, may it never be said that it was uneventful.

"UNCLE JIM!" four voices of a childish nature full of British agitation called, no,_ screamed_, from their positions at the dining table, while their grandmother, after getting over the booming change in volume, dropped the letters she was just reading over and covering her hands tightly over her ears.

J.M. Barrie, who had been sleeping quite fitfully, snapped his eyes opened at once, and his face met the smiling face of his faithful canine, who, now noticing his master awake, thinking it showed a gesture of love, began licking him sloppily on the face, which did not make his master feel quite loved at all.

"Porthos," he struggled out in agitation, "Off."

But he wasn't relenting, and James had to forcefully shove the dog away from his assaulted face, before thoroughly scrubbing the slime that had recently been forced upon him.

Porthos, still believing nothing wrong, sat on the floor, wagging his long tail and staring appreciatively at his master.

Sighing he began to get dresses, while Porthos went to retrieve his shoes.

"Thanks boy," he said patting the dog on the head, forgetting all previous apprehension.

"UNCLE JIM!"

Sighing for another time, James walked quickly toward the door. Pulling the brass knob, he whistled for his dog, who obediently trotted ahead of him as he closed the door and proceeded calmly down the stairs.

"UNCLE-"

"Jim, yes I know. Stop shoutin' boys. I believe you be given your poor, dear, old grandmother a migraine."

"Thank you James. You couldn't have chosen to arrive in better timing?" She scolded over the rim of her recently acquired horn rimmed glasses, her usually icy glazed eyes, replaced with a hint of humor, as she lowered her hands off her ears to await the particularly witty response that was more often then not due to occur.

"Forgive me Emma, but I believe it was you that told me the other morning after the bout about Porthos, that you would prefer to spend as little hours around me as possible," there was a apparent twinkle in his eyes, "I thought it fit to begin a trial run today. Keep you on your toes."

"Well then I shall have to get used to this new development," she repeated curtly, before taking a sip of her once scalding, but now tepid tea.

"So boys, interested in becoming alarms now?"

"We wanted to ask if we could go to the park-" started George who was abruptly interrupted by Michael.

"But grandma said we weren't allowed to bother you upstairs, so we decided if you were downstairs we could ask."

"Michael do you always have to interrupt me!" George said, rolling his eyes in agitation heaven ward.

"I wasn't interrupting you, I was just finishing the story. No one ever lets me tell the story."

"Whatever." George answered with a moody stab into his eggs with the points of his fork.

"Of course we'll go to the park, that is, if Emma has an objection?"

All five males starred at the grandmother with the usual look commonly found upon Porthos when he wanted something. And sure enough, their looks mirrored that of the canine waiting sincerely by the entrance of the door, with his leash in mouth.

"Oh, how could I refuse looks like that?"

Abruptly the faces changed abruptly from those somber longing into glowing faces of children on Christmas. As if they had never gone to the park before...but Emma knew that they did since just yesterday she was asking the maids to clean the trek of mud all over the hallway floor.

"Alright boys, go upstairs and clean yourselves up...not that it will matter in a little while in the slightest."

The boys quickly pushed their chairs, shoveled as much food in their mouths as they could, clanged their utensils sharply on their plates and bowls, and ran quickly up the marble stairs to retrieve what they wanted to bring with them.

Figuring this would take some time, as it usually did due to the usual occurrence of arguments, James opened up the paper, and the first thing he noticed was an article in large print that stated, **'WRITING: A HOBBY OR AN OBSESSION?" written by Eric McKinley.**

McKinley? Why did that name sound familiar?

McKinley...Irish...

"_That's Irish isn't it.? You don't sound it."_

"_Oh well, my ancestors were Irish, and I've lived here all my life, so I've adapted to this dialect_"

Yes, now he remembered.

The very astute, sharp-witted, defensive Irish, but adapted British woman he had met in the park, after she had almost been concussed by an onslaught of a lone hard ball.

_And attractive _he thought on the side.

_Woa...where did that come from?_

James shook his head slightly to ward off anymore thoughts of Ms. McKinley...and suddenly became very thankful of the boys impeccable timing, for they had deluded from his mind the thoughts that shouldn't have been, and in reality, were very foreign, in his mind.

"Ready to go Uncle Jim?"

They stood in front of him, jackets buttoned, hair neatly combed back...

Not for long.

"Yes...yes let's go boys."

"Have a good day Emma." James called from the door, forgetting his newspaper in front of his place at the table.

"Have a good time." she called after them, before, hearing the door shut with a satisfying slam, she moved from her seat to retrieve the paper James had been thoughtfully reading.

Reading the bold title, and reading through the animatedly passionate writing.

"No man wrote this..." she said slowly, not being prejudice against man's writing; she did after all have a famous playwright and author in the household after all.

But...the way it was artfully sculpted and thoroughly examined from all angles, Emma concluded that a man would have only really persecuted the topic through his sane mind only. Not from both _feminine and male parties_.

Hmmm...interesting.

At the park

Realizing he forgot his copy of the paper on the dining room table, James and the boys waited a few minutes as Peter retrieved on from the boy waving them on the street corner, before continuing their annual journey to the park.

James remembered that he used to traverse alone...him and his faithful terrier Porthos.

Mary never liked to go to the park, for reasons he never really understood. She had, before they had married, loved the outdoors. The smell of the spring time. The bitterness of the harsh winds of winter. The heat waves that plagued in the summer, and the artful paintings that blended in the autumn. She loved it all...embraced it with a smile.

But, after they were married, she hid herself in the confines of her rooms, and always subjected herself to reading books and cutting out pictures from the newspaper and catching up the latest gossip. See what a little fame did to people. Subjected them to haughty thoughts and dreams, sucking from them happier times. Precious times.

Sylvia on the other hand...

He choked slightly, his throat constricting around his wind pipe.

"Are you alright Uncle Jim?" Peter asked concernedly.

"Yes," he coughed clearing his throat and alleviating its tightness, " I'm fine."

Yes she was.

She was an angel that was sent to his life, with a revelation in a simple package symbolizing the opening a paper and finding pleasantly a hole in a newspaper. But that day, the opening-amidst the border surrounded by nonexistent nor important words and pictures-was like a portal whirling him into a void of happiness and, unfortunately, a great sadness and suffering. And then there was compassion amongst the suffering. For without suffering there could be no compassion.

She had left too soon, but instead of taking everything away, she blessed him, instead, with four little angels, who of which, took on the spitting image of their mother, with some integrated mixes of their father, more along the hair and manly accommodations.

And now, instead of two, there was six.

A group of notorious pirates searching for their secret longings and thirsty with the unsatisfied quench for adventure.

"Alright boys, off you go."

And they left, making them two again. But James never minded. Sometimes he would partake in their games. Other times he would watch them with a satisfied smirk. And again other times he would read or write, his faithful companion laying obediently at his side.

So, locating his usual lurking, with his newspaper tucked under his arm, he proceeded by sitting down on the iron angled bench with the high back, and opened the paper to the very article he was reading before that had captivated his attention so effectively.

"_Writing cannot be defined with simple terms, and I am not going to attempt to simplify. t is a very art...the very essence of a soul. When one writes, each time they pick up their pen or whatever common writing utensil they are comfortable with_, _they are pouring out a little piece of their very being onto the paper, where it would be recorded and, if one wished it so, protected and never forgotten forever."_

Her writing was succulent. It devoured his mind and attention as he poured over the articulate terms and flowery words that flowed together like silk. He decided maybe her true profeesion should have reflected in the options of poetry. Her words and thoughts seemed to have poured exactly from very essence, as if she meant, poetically, to string the words in a sort of melodic rhythm, that left the reader breathless, dazed, and perhaps even aching with a type of longing for more.

In fact he was so dazed and bedazzled, that he did not even hear the sounds of padded feet, crunching in the grass behind him.

"Reading anything of interest?"

The voice had felt like a sledgehammer to the skull, as he was quickly forced out of his entranced thoughts.

He jumped slightly, and felt a slight blush creep on his cheeks when he heard a very feminine giggle behind him.

"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you." the familiar voice stated sincerely, but still with the amused lilt in it.

He turned sharply to find the very person belonging to the voice.

It was her. The tall, elegant but conservative, astute but sincere Irish bred, but British borne woman that he now admired with a new light.

"Ms. McKinely," he shook his head slightly to gain a more stable grounding, "um, no of course you did not scare me. Merely startled, really."

"Oh shucks," she said with a slight click of her tongue, "I really thought I had you."

He chuckled lightly at her antics, and proceeded to invite her to sit with him on the bench.

"So...what are you reading?"

"Uh," he hesitated while trying to turn to a different page without notice, "the newspaper. Usual stuff, weather, politics. You know, news." he ended rather lamely, and chided himself for it.

"News huh? Fascinating. Any particular passage or article your reading."

"Uh yes actually..." he said glancing quickly and reading, "'tea percentages have soared by...eighty percent." he finished slowly, hoping she didn't find the passage as ridiculous to read as he had.

She blinked slightly for a moment, before saying quickly with a slight polite smile, "Well there is nothing like tea reports to bring out the better part of your day."

He laughed then, a pleasant sound to her ears. For some reason she liked to earn smiles and laughs from this man.

She joined him in this outburst, and when they had finished, he lifted a long finger to wipe a slightly tearing eye.

"'Boy, why are you crying?'"

"Haha...well I am quite enthralled by your presence."

"Aww stop, your making me blush."

More chuckles and then James finally said sheepishly.

"Well I was really, in fact, readin' an article by a certain journalist. Perhaps you've heard of her, I mean him."

"Well what's his name?" Playing along with his game, even though she caught the mistake in his sentence. She was an editor; it bothered people sometimes, but she couldn't help it. So she contained herself and flicked a hand along with her question for him to continue.

"An Eric McKinley?"

"Oh him" she said thoughtfully, making a face that caused him to go into another bout of hysterics.

"Yes I've heard of him. Very notoriously well-endowed journalist."

"Well, for once I will have to agree with you. The writing style is superb, in fact, enticin'." he said seriously, but with a glint of knowing and malicious humor.

"Well, I'll have to tell him that when I see him."

" All humor aside, it was a very pleasing piece to read."

" It was an article on writing." she reminded skeptically.

"Aye but, not most people would take a simple topic such as the aggravatin' task of writing, and make it actually seem...well soothin', actually. Like a relief."

"Well thank you, you're too kind."

"Comes with the territory."

They stared out in front of them for a few moments, watching as the boys played catch.

Erin laughed quietly.

James turned slightly at the sound, "What are ye laughin at?"

"Having deja vu." she said as she lifted to rub unconsciously at an old wound.

"Oh by the way, how is your 'ead?"

"Nothing life threatening."

"Good."

More silence.

"Well, I am glad for your opinion, Mr. Barrie."

"James please." he replied, rising with her, and holding out his hand.

"I'd prefer to call you whatever name I find suitable with the situation J-Mr. Barrie," catching herself and replying a little more cooly then she wished.

"Well if that is what the woman wants, that is what she shall get." He said dispassionately, following with a slight shrug of his left shoulder.

"What did you say?"

"I said-"

"I know what you said, what I meant was, why did you say it?"

"Why shouldn't I say it?" he replied smoothly, rendering her speechless.

"Well...uh..."

He waited patiently as she stuttered, rather incoherently, really.

She groaned slightly in the back of her throat, closing her eyes, and breathing deeply in order to regain composure.

"I am surprised I do not have an answer to that question. Usually I am never at a loss for words."

"Well there is a first time for everything." he replied curtly with a polite smile lingering on his lips.

She strained a smile back, and with a brisk dismissal, she turned away from him, and he watched her skirts swirl away, and watched her footsteps as she glided away.

And she left him wondering how a simple sentence such as that could make her react the way she did.

"_Well if that is what the woman wants, that is what she shall get."_

_A/N Sorry i haven't updated in a very, very, long time but i have been in a seriously long writer's block. Grrr...i hate those things. A big thank you for all my lovely reviewers. Bottles of rum to all you mates... You better review if you want one...Just kidding mates. It would be nice though..._


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